


Return of the King

by Berseker



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape/Non-con References, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:16:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berseker/pseuds/Berseker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a worn-out couch and Foggy sits by his side and doesn’t try to hug him, not yet, but he’s so close and Matt is tired, so he rests his head on Foggy’s shoulder.</p><p>(Alternate Timeline right after #118. What if Fisk wanted revenge, after escaping Ryker?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return of the King

Right now it’s important to remember the order of things. What happened first and what came last. Every mistake and bad choice and how he came to be here.

Not here, here’s a worn-out couch and Foggy sits by his side and doesn’t try to hug him, not yet, but he’s so close and Matt is tired, so he rests his head on Foggy’s shoulder. He didn’t want to. He very actively wanted not to. But it's Foggy. And Foggy saw the way he walked, and how careful he was when he sat down, and he flinched – Matt noticed it, he flinched and held his breath for almost five seconds –and then Matt’s head hurt too much but no, he’s losing track , isn’t he? And this came later.

He needs to focus on what came before. It started one or two days ago - no, not quite, but that’s all he can handle right now. The main thing is that he helped Fisk. He got him free - he got him out. The man was in jail, and he got him out.

That’s irrelevant, now.

No.

Not irrelevant. Just not as important as everything else.

So, it started two days ago. 

 

 

The first thing was the scream. Matt knows about screams. He can tell the difference between that playful, if loud, shriek thing teen girls do when they want to... get attention, or see a friend and can’t hold back their joy, or any of the other reasons why they insist in doing that, and he can tell when it’s a scared sort of scream and when it’s a terrified sort of scream, the kind you let out when you think you’ll die, and the kind you let out when you’re not thinking about that anymore because whatever they doing to you hurts so much that you can’t worry about dying - and this was the scream he heard.

So it starts with a girl screaming, not even for help, just- screaming. Then he thinks, and focus on the sound to see - ha, no - where it came from.

No.

It starts with the headache he was feeling that morning - but he didn’t know it was starting there - but-

No.

It starts with something he had right before that, because he wasn’t sick when he got up. He got sick later. They did that to him, somehow. And then the scream and the bad decision. But he could heard her sobs and she was saying please. Not to him, but he was the only one who could - would - help her.

No.

It starts with a knife that cuts through his uniform and bites his skin. Hands on his hips.

Matt closes his eyes and breathes. Deeply, once, twice, then he holds his breath for as long as he can. It’s a long time. He’s good at this.

Inhale, exhale.

Let’s try this again.

It starts when a girl screams.

 

 

He knew about the Kingpin’s return, of course. But he was still thinking about it, trying to understand the implications and, to be honest, he still wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do.

He had heard about Bullseye’s escape, too.

He wasn’t careless. It had happened too fast, that was all, so he hadn’t had the time to do anything about it. He should have, of course. So that was his first mistake.

Then he got sick. It was hard to place it, because he felt funny everywhere. His head was hurting and he felt a little dizzy - not much, not enough to keep him down, just a little - but hey. It wasn’t like he could stay in bed all day.

So he didn’t, so he got up, so he went to work just like always and there he had a cup of coffee. It took him a few seconds to figure out it had been made by Becky, strong and way too sweet.

(Later he would think this had been the first sign, because he usually didn’t have to stop and think about it, he only entered the office and thought oh Becky made coffee, so it mean that he wasn’t up to his usual standards and he should have worried, should have noticed, should have done something-)

The day was slow, and very calm. Relatively speaking. The smell of ink and papers and books and the sounds from the streets. Jokes, laughter, Foggy’s typing, Becky’s chair, just your regular office noises. By 5 pm his head was pounding and he couldn’t read. He struggled, fingers going over the page a hundred times, and he couldn’t make sense of what it said. So he told them he would go home. Rest. Sleep it off, whatever it was. They agreed, too, Foggy grinned and said looks like someone didn’t sleep at all, uh? But seriously now, go rest if you’re sick, it’s a slow day anyway.

He remembered leaving, and closing the door behind him. Remembered feeling cold, and feeling the sun on his skin - awful feeling, the heat outside and the cold inside, so bad that it made his teeth chatter, but he kept going anyway. And then - had he been walking slower? Now he couldn’t tell, but this was important, because if he had been, it was another sign he had missed. Because he didn’t have to walk slowly, he could tell where everyone else was, always, if there was a tree in the way and where the sidewalk ended and the street started, and if there was a car coming or not.

Anyway.

People made way for him - they always did, when they saw the cane - and someone held his elbow once, to help him cross the street. He didn’t think. Much. He just walked.

Another sign?

His first thought when he heard the scream was- not really a thought. He stopped, and someone bumped into him and then apologized and he was closing his eyes behind the sunglasses to focus, because he couldn’t tell where it had come from. So his first real thought was this vague wish that the person would scream again, so he could find it, and it didn’t cross his mind that he should be than that.

She screamed again, and this time she was sobbing, so he started to run.

Everything else was normal. For him. Find a high place, the suit, jumping, the air, everything, and see, it worked. He didn’t fall; he could still do it so that was why he didn’t think anything would go bad. Even if his head was hurting. So maybe it wasn’t his fault? For not seeing it coming?

 

It starts with a door opening, in a warehouse somewhere. He hears the subway nearby. He hears sobs and heavy breathing and he smells blood, dark and strong and so familiar, and heartbeats and then the sense of familiarity is overpowering but it takes him a few precious seconds to place it, before his instinct kicks in. So he jumps right as the - what - arrow, but not exactly, a dart, maybe, hits the door by his face, so he’s slow - this time it really sinks in, he’s slow.

It starts with many people - he can’t tell how many, but he fights and it goes on forever, and something hit his arm - darts, yes, but could be knives too, something sharp that tears his sleeve and skin and makes him bleed - and someone punches him- right? Hits his face, but he can’t tell how, or with what, and then another blow and his head spins and his knees hit the floor and he feels the floor trembling and he thinks it’s an earthquake and - his brain gives him the word, subway, the trains, ah, right, there was that- and someone kicks his stomach and he crumples on the floor.

It starts with hands raising his body, while he struggles to breathe, raising his arms above his head, holding his legs, and he gasps for air and chokes and coughs and it sounds too loud, the way he fights for air, and he almost wishes he could take off the uniform to relieve the pressure on his lungs and his cold must be really fucking bad and his heart is a set of drums right next to his ear.

(it will take him a while to notice that the girl stopped screaming.

It will take him the whole night)

 

 

Then he's alone.

No.

They're still around, just- not close. There's breathing and people moving, slower and slower until they stop and they're- surrounding him, they must be, because the sound comes from everywhere. So they're standing by the walls? The warehouse. It was- it's shaped like a rectangle, right, with a high ceiling, and- the door is-

He can't find the door. He hears breathing, and so many beating hearts, mixed stench of sweat and blood, he feels it on his skin. And the pain from the blows. But at least now he can breathe a little, not much, but better, and the way they raised his arms hurt and they did something to his legs, there are chains on the floor too and-

Stop.

Breathe.

Again.

The handcuffs are connected to a chain hanging from the ceiling. He tries to guess how high it is by the sound, and how they work, but it's so loud, and all it tells him is that it's very high. And there's metal – maybe a hook, or something, in the ceiling. It put a lot of strain on his back.

Stop and breathe, again. The chains are made of steel. So is the hook. So – why are they- doing that, standing there, and doing nothing? Because he can tell, they’re watching him. And the silence is oddly comforting, even if it shouldn't be, because they're not doing this for him, to comfort him, that is, so he should focus, and he doesn't know why it's so hard, why he can't just–

There's a new sound, then. Steps.

And then-

This sound, this smell, this step the beat of his heart the way he breathes Matt remembers it so well of course of course of course it's him of course-

Stop, breathe again, think. Did he throw that knife – or whatever it was- at him, was he here from the start? Matt can't tell and he should be able to, so no, he wasn't, he came inside just now from the door Matt can't find, otherwise he would have noticed it right away, he's sure of it.

Bullseye stands right in front of him.

“There you are,” he says, “Fucking finally. Just look at you.”

The punchline will be as predictable as Matt thinks it is, and there are many things he can tell, like that Bullseye is smiling, so close that Matt can - almost- see him, the dark outline of where his body must be but it’s not as sharp, not as clear, so he feels tall and large, and it’s like there’s this, this strange thing like waves or, or something coming from his body, heat and the smell of his clothes and the smell of his body and his hair and it’s like a cloud around him and doing this, trying to focus, makes his head hurt even more, but he has to -

“But you can’t,” he says, and yes, Matt knew this was coming. “So believe me when I say you look great.”

“What are you doing here?” Matt says. His voice sounds almost normal. This is good.

“But you look a little scared,” he says, “Are you, Daredevil?”

He can guess the smile from the way he says the words. What now. What now.

“How did you escape from Ryker?”

It was a dumb question. He had heard about it. Why hadn’t he worried? He should have done something as soon as he had heard it. He should.

“Good thing you asked, this is something I’ve been dying to tell you. But let’s catch up first, it’s been a while since we met. How are you feeling?”

The way he said that. Gloating, and happy and so pleased. Matt had to wait, and breathe, before he could answer, and breathing was so hard, it felt like there was a rope around his neck.

“You did something to me.”

Bullseye laughed. It wasn’t forced, Matt could tell.

“Aren't you a careless little hero? You know Compost X15? No, of course you don't. Goes really well with coffee. Except, you know, for making you sick as fuck if you're dumb enough to drink it. Are you sick?”

Coffee. Not from today, no, that was from Becky and she always uses the one they had in the office and she wasn’t sick, neither was Foggy, so before that, right, he remembered, he had been feeling ill since he got out of bed. At the courtroom, maybe, last night- someone brought it to him and he couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman and he didn’t remember anything unusual, not from the person, not from the taste, he couldn’t even tell how much he had drank it. Then Bullseye raised his hand and grabbed Matt’s chin and all his thought screeched to a halt.

“You know,” he said, slowly, dragging every word, “I hate to see you like this. Why don’t we get you comfortable?”

He hears the steps first. Everything else comes really fast too, the smell, the sounds, heartbeats and the subtle change of pressure in the room and the warmth from his body and the sound of the clock on his wrist, but he hears the steps first.

Fisk enters the room.

 

(later he'll remember the warning. Fisk told him what he would do, if he ever left the prison. And Matt got him out anyway. So he had it coming. Like they say – he asked for it.)

 

 

I think you like punishment, Fisk says. His voice is so deep. It bothers Matt, how deep it is. Always had. It makes him uncomfortable. And the way he says I think you like this, the way he chuckles, makes him feel dirty.

But that was later.

This is now, and it's important to remember it right.

 

 

For the first time in a while, he doesn't hear what someone says. When Fisk enters, Bullseye stops – he wants to enjoy every second, so he waits, one surprise at a time – another train passes by and Matt hears it from miles away, getting louder and louder and louder, so when Fisk open his mouths it's just another sound in a maze of echoes, making the floor tremble and the chain rattle and it makes Matt open his mouth to scream, but he doesn't because there's too much noise already. So he keeps his eyes tightly shut and waits.

He doesn't whimper when it's over. It's scary how much he wants to.

“You shouldn't be here.” He's not completely sure this is what he wants to say, but he can't think of anything else. “We had an agreement.”

He can't tell what's happening, just that Fisk stops, and probably looks at him but he's not sure, he might be looking at anything, all Matt knows is that he's there. He can't even tell how far apart they are. 

“How are you, Mr. Murdock?”

His voice sounds pleasant. And deep. And not angry like it was the last time. Last time when he told him he would bring him down.

No, last time they made a deal. Fisk shouldn't be here. Matt struggles again, and the sound of the chain echoes on the walls. On the two men standing way too close.

“Well,” Fisk says, “I'm disappointed, I must say. I was expecting a passionate denial. But since we're past this already...”

Matt doesn't know what happens. He can't see. He can't see. Bullseye holds his chin again, and it's so sudden that it makes him gasp, and then he holds his mask, and – this happens very slowly- starts to peel it off.

“No,” Matt says.

“No? You didn't like that?” he touches his face, his palm against Matt's cheeks. His fingers smell like blood. It's so strong. Matt can't decide if he needs to take deep breathes or to stop breathing altogether, because there's something tight around his lungs now and he feels sick, like his stomach is suddenly being filled with acid. Bullseye's hands are rough and strong and scarred, Matt feels it against his skin. He can't breathe.

“No,” he says, and this, this just took a turn from bad to fucking nightmarish, the way Bullseye holds his face like that, it feels like, like having insects crawling all over his skin and he has this crazy urge to shut his mouth because- it feels like that, but he hears him laughing and it sounds delighted, and – inch by inch- his masks comes off.

“Like that,” he says, “See? Easy, isn't it? Let's see your pretty face,” and he raises his chin so Fisk can look at him and – Matt doesn't know who else is there, but they can see him and he feels naked in front of them.

“Amazing, isn't it, what a mask can do?” Bullseye tightens the hold on his chin, “You look like a baby without it. Doesn't he?”

“No,” Fisk says, evenly, but Matt can tell he wants to smile, “Not a baby. Just fragile. A little blind boy. You didn't answer my question, Murdock, how are you feeling?”

“We had a deal,” he says. He's not whispering. Is he? “Fisk. You had a chance to start a new life, a chance to honor Vanessa's memory-'

“Don't talk about her,” Fisk says. His rage hits Matt like a wave, and maybe he flinched, maybe he turned his head, because then Bullseye is holding his chin and turning it back. Even if he can't see. Even if he can't face them. 

He knows the blow is coming. He tries to brace for it, but there's only so much he can do when he's hanging from the chains, so when Fisk hits him in the stomach, the metal holds and his knees go weak. He can't bend over and he can't breathe and he can't make a single sound, he can't hear anything but his own heart and his desperate gasp and no air filling his lungs and then they wait – mercifully they wait, they wait – until his chest is heaving in a desperate fit of coughing.

“You asked for it,” he hears Fisk say, “And I've been waiting to do that. He's all yours now.”

All yours. Bullseye holds him by his neck and Matt feels the tip of his blade. All yours.

It's stronger than iron, that knife; it must be, because it's sharp enough to cut him with the lightest pressure, strong enough to tear his suit from his neck to his waist. And then down, and down. There's blood in his chest, and his waistline and over his hips, and he hopes deliriously that they didn't find a way to poison that blade.

“That's a nasty bruise you got there,” Bullseye says, and punches him again in exactly the same place. Everything sounds dims and then strong again, too far and too close, and if they do it one more time he'll pass out right there. But he doesn't whimper. He doesn't plead. His head is a kaleidoscope of prayer and begging and pain, but he doesn't make a sound.

Then he's naked, his suit torn in shreds around his ankles, naked and unmasked and Bullseye pinches his waist like a lover would, then hits him in a million different places, then again-

-and again-

-and again-

-and again for all the times he wanted to and couldn't, and when he's done he takes a step back, maybe to appreciate his handiwork, and Matt knows he's a mess. Blood fills his mouth and trickles down his chin and there's a dull ache all over his head and he can't open his eyes, and he thinks at least one rib is broken. He thinks it can’t get any worse.

Then Bullseye's stands behind him and his hands are on his hips again, and Matt wonders, in the middle of a haze of pain, when exactly he walked around him. He bites him, sink his teeth in the curve of his neck. Blood and saliva mix in the wound and he laughs and kisses him too, kisses and sucks at his skin and licks the blood from his back. Matt shakes from repulse. He feels it – when Bullseye spreads him open, there’s torn tissue and more blood oozing down his legs, and Fisk holds his chin. 

“I think you like punishment,” he says. “You came right looking for it.”

Then Bullseye is inside him, and he screams. He didn’t know he had the strength for it. 

But it starts with a scream.

 

 

It takes a while – it takes a lifetime – but he passes out with grunts ringing in his ears.

 

 

No, wait, wait, there was a girl, he says when someone is dressing his wounds, and he recognizes the smell and the heartbeat but his brain takes a full minute before providing a name. Danny Rand. What is he doing what did he see - no, that doesn't matter, there was a girl and he forgot about her. Don't worry, Danny says, we'll look for-

-no.

That was later. He wants to remember it right. 

 

 

You didn't come back, Foggy says, I was freaking out, because you didn't look so well when you left, so this wasn't a night to- God, Mattie-

It's the nickname that does him. But that came later too and he can't afford that, he needs to think right, needs to remember right, because he feels them in his skin and smells them in his hair and it won't wash away no matter how hard he scrubs and how scalding the water, he needs to learn from his mistake so it will never happen again, because if it does, if it happens again-

Breathe.

He was careless, he drank something he shouldn't. He was captured and they-

-doesn't matter. They hurt him, roughed him up a bit, that's all.

Shit happens.

And then, thank you Lord for the small mercies, when he comes back around he's not hanging from the chains anymore, he's in someone's arms and he's covered – not the suit, he thinks, something else, doesn't feel like clothes, someone wrapped something around his body, and there's a name floating around in his head and sounds he can't decode because the pain is overwhelming. He thinks of what they must have seen and shame tightens his throat. How many people saw it? 

And he's grateful for the punches, for the busted lip and swollen eyes and broken bones and knife cuts, because it might distract them from the other wounds. They carry him, and Matt grits his teeth against the pain.

Luke Cage, his brain helpfully supplies, as his head falls against a broad shoulder. He's saying something. He's saying we got you don't worry. The next time he's conscious, Matt is grabbing Danny's arm and telling him about a girl he failed to save.

 

  
See? All so logically ordered. Neatly laid out for critical analysis. All the pieces. He's not crazy. He's not breaking. He's fine.

Wasn't even all that hard.

 

 

“Well yeah I called them,” Foggy admits, when Matt is sitting in his couch, holding a cup of tea and ignoring the smell he can't scrub off. He told Luke and Danny to take him to his own place, and was solemnly ignored. So here he is.

They don't tell him about the girl, no matter how much he asks. They don’t tell him how many people they fought to get to him. So he doesn’t push it. 

“I was worried,” Foggy is saying. “And they're supposed to be heroes for hire, right? So, I hired them.”

“Not for a long time,” Matt says. But he doesn't hear his own voice, so maybe he just thought it. He hopes he's not going insane. He's been there. Foggy sits by his side and Matt feels him close, everything about him warm and familiar and safe.

“I'm sorry, but I had to do something. You didn't come back, I was freaking out, because you didn't look so well when you left, so this wasn't a night to- God, Mattie-”

So he knows. Matt can tell by his voice. He knows – he saw him so careful to sit down, saw the way he walks, he knows, but he’s holding his shoulder, and he called him Mattie and he's not disgusted and there's love and pain in his voice.

So Matt rests his head on Foggy’s shoulder. That's all he planned to do, just rest, but then the cup of tea smashes on the floor and the smell of chamomile rises like a cloud.

This feels nice, he thinks. To be crazy and to be held and to scream into his clothes. And it's important to remember all of it, what happened first and last – not now. 

Now there's tea soaking the carpet. Now he's safe.

And tomorrow he'll make them pay, or maybe the day after tomorrow when he's able to walk right. They’ll help him – Luke and Danny, they’re guarding the house, he hears them outside, they’ll tell him what happened. Later. Later. Now he's here and Foggy holds him, and Matt falls apart in his couch.


End file.
